And there they are, a stack of blueberry pancakes, a pot of coffee, and two plates.
“You made pancakes?” I bend down to scratch Steve behind the ears.
“I’ve been up for a couple hours,” he admits. “Ran out to the store to get a few things. And I took Steve out. Hope that’s okay. I wanted us to get an early start, if possible.” As he says this, he glances pointedly at my pajamas.
I pause halfway to the bottle of syrup. He made pancakes, which feels like a point in the let’s-do-this-again-soon column. But he wants to get back to Seattle as soon as we can, which doesn’t. I’m not sure how to reconcile those two things. “Oh—yeah, that’s fine. Thank you. I’ll shower and pack as soon as we finish.”
He smiles, but it’s a little strained, and it makes the sugary breakfast turn to chalk in my mouth. Is that . . . regret?
The things he said to me last night don’t match up with that smile. You have no idea how hot you are. I want you to come with me. A tangle of sighs and limbs and desperation.
I’m suddenly not hungry, but I force down as many bites of pancake as I can.
* * *
—
We talk about nearly everything else on the ride back—podcasts, our families, the weather. But we don’t talk about what happened. I could easily bring it up—nice orgasms last night, huh?—but if I do, and if he tells me it was some kind of extended experiment brought about by our predicament, I’m not sure I could handle it. Not while trapped in a car with him. Not when we finally feel like friends. I’d rather hold on to the maybe, so I embrace the silence.
By the time we stop outside his place, I have two and a half hangnails and a raging stress headache. The street is only half-familiar, like I visited it in a dream, but I’m able to spot Dominic’s apartment right away, tucked between the columns of identical buildings.
He unbuckles his seat belt, but he doesn’t move to get out. “Hey,” he says, and I turn to look at him, my heart pounding against my own seat belt. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning?”
I do my best to project an everything-is-fine tone. “Yep. Bright and early.”
And then, in one swift motion, he leans over and slides a hand into my hair, dragging my mouth to his. The kiss starts out sweet until I part my lips, eager to taste more of him. He matches me, pressing back with an urgency that leaves me gasping for air.
A crooked smile, and then he’s gone, the kiss convincing me that whatever we started on the island wasn’t done yet.
* * *
—
“Something happened,” Ameena says, and it’s a good thing I didn’t go into broadcast journalism because my face is utterly incapable of keeping a secret. My mouth twitches, or my nostrils flare, or my eyes dart back and forth.
It was early afternoon when Dominic and I got back to Seattle, so when Ameena texted about an estate sale, I jumped at the chance to meet her. And when she asked how it went, I couldn’t keep a straight face.
“Something definitely happened,” TJ agrees, holding up a pillowcase with a clown embroidered on it.
“Absolutely not,” Ameena says, and he slowly sets it down.
I walk to the end of a row of kitchenware. Of course, it reminds me of the antique shops we went to, and I find myself wondering if there’s any cast-iron here.
“Fine, fine, something happened, and I am maybe in the middle of a crisis,” I say, and I try my best to put it all into words. Not just the parts that involved no clothes, but our conversation Friday night, and the hike, and the way he held my dog. After five years, I’ve gotten used to telling Ameena about my relationships with TJ around, which of course means TJ also knows Dominic and I are lying about the show.
“You do have a thing for guys and animals,” Ameena muses. “Remember that guy Rodrigo and the kittens?”
Ah, yes: Rodrigo the data analyst, whose cat had just given birth to a litter of six little fluffballs. After a while, I had to admit I was more interested in cuddling with the kittens than with him.
“They couldn’t even open their eyes yet, Ameena. They couldn’t open their eyes.”
She snorts, pausing to dig through a box of shoes. This week she finds out about the Virginia job, and I can tell she’s on edge by the way she passes up a pair of yellow T-strap sandals.
“Now it’s a problem, though,” I say. “Because I really want it to happen again.”
“Is there a reason it can’t? Or that it shouldn’t?” TJ asks.
Ameena points at him. “What he said.”
“Because the whole conceit of the show is that we’re not dating? And besides, maybe I only like him because I’m not supposed to. Maybe that’s what makes it exciting.”
“People can get back together,” TJ says. “The listeners might even love that.”
“I thought about that,” I admit. Fleetingly, on the ride home, while working on my second hangnail. “But things are going too well with the show to jeopardize it. Doing anything with Dominic . . . being a real couple. I can’t see how it wouldn’t mess shit up. Unless—unless we somehow managed to keep it casual.”
Casual—the thing that Dominic doesn’t do. And given my history, there’s a risk I’d cling, and he’s only twenty-four. Simple relationship statistics, many of which fill up my computer’s search history—hazard of hosting a dating show—indicate he wouldn’t be clinging back.
“And you’re good at it.” Ameena frowns, tucking a strand of her long dark hair behind one ear. “This might be a stupid question, but is there any chance the two of you could come clean?”
“No. It would be a disaster. We’ve already hooked a couple sponsors, and Kent hinted that we might—” I swallow, trying not to get my hopes up. “That we might have a chance at PodCon.”
TJ lets out a low whistle. “Shit, that’s huge. You think you can get Marc Maron’s autograph for me?”
Ameena whacks his arm with a circle skirt. “You haven’t talked about someone like this in a while,” she says quietly. “I know the whole thing is inconvenient, but you’re already pretending to be exes. It sounds like a lot to keep pretending you feel differently about him on top of all that.” There’s something in her voice that sounds a little like judgment.
“It’s my career,” I say, harder edged than I intend. “I can’t just throw it all away for a guy.”
“You’re right,” she says, her words threaded with frustration, and though TJ and I try our best to distract her with vintage dresses, she’s aloof the rest of the afternoon.
* * *
—
Steve is waiting at the door when I get home. Even after being with him all weekend, I’ve begun to look forward to his you didn’t abandon me excitement. He’ll run circles around the living room, and it takes a few laps for him to slow down enough for me to pet him.
I settle into the couch, scratching his ears, and it doesn’t sink in until I’ve been there for a while that I’m no longer eager for background noise. Some new pillows I bought last weekend add a spot of brightness to the room, and I even unpacked the moment I got home, throwing my dirty clothes in the washing machine. Not to mention having Steve’s stuff everywhere makes the place feel more lived-in, less sterile. Suddenly, I don’t hate being here.
Maybe I really was lonely.
Of course, that makes me think of Dominic. It aches when I picture him in his own apartment eating alone, drinking alone, watching TV alone. Climbing into bed and sleeping alone after two nights next to me.
Determined not to think about last night, I throw myself into researching our upcoming episodes. We’re planning one about jazzing up dating profiles, one about gender ratios in major cities, one about dating as a single parent, all with guests who are experts in their fields. I have to focus on the show. Like I told Ameena, I can’t risk my job after finally getting the chance to be on the air.
For t
hree and a half more months, at least, according to my initial handshake with Dominic. Deep down, of course I’m hoping he loves the show enough to want to keep it up longer, especially if we get bigger sponsorship opportunities.
And yet the more I look through my notes, the more I find myself drawn to the one show that hasn’t been approved yet. I’ve done enough research to know that no topic in the dating landscape is truly unexplored. We’re just one of many, many podcasts that have traversed it. But what has always made radio so special to me is its ability to turn something intangible into something personal. To let someone tell a story only they can.
This grief show wouldn’t be breakthrough radio, I know that—but it would be mine.
23
“Why are there dildos in the newsroom?”
Marlene Harrison-Yates is waiting by my desk on Monday morning, hovering over a box of sex toys that seemingly appeared there overnight. There are matching boxes on Dominic’s and Ruthie’s desks.
“That is an excellent question,” I say, pushing the box out of the way to make room for my coffee and nearly knocking over Dominic’s master’s jar in the process.
“Sponsors,” Ruthie says, peeking up from her desk. “Well, hopeful sponsors. They sent this stuff so you’d, um, try it out”—she chokes on a laugh—“and then, if you like it, talk about it on the show.”
It’s not just sex toys. There’s also a lube-of-the-month subscription box, a pair of shoes made almost entirely from corn, and a set of organic bedsheets. I’m pretty sure we can’t talk about half this stuff on NPR.
Marlene purses her lips and returns to her desk.
I spent far too much time debating what to wear to work this morning. I wanted to strike the perfect balance between professional and don’t you want to see me naked again? Ultimately, I went with something not much different from what I usually wear: my favorite dark-wash jeans, ankle boots, and a fitted black blazer over a V-neck blouse. It’s still NPR, after all. And Dominic said he likes what I wear to work.
I was so on edge I couldn’t even listen to the radio in the car. One of my hangnails got so bad that I have two Band-Aids wrapped around my thumb, and the multiple orgasms I had with Dominic may have ended my drought but only deepened my sexual frustration.
And the box o’ dildos isn’t helping.
“How was the weekend?” Ruthie asks as we sort through the boxes, grouping items into two piles labeled safe for npr and fcc lawsuit. Dominic’s not here yet, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved. “Did you guys bond?”
I avoid her gaze, worried my face will give away all the ways in which we bonded. “He and my dog did.” I hold up the lube-of-the-month subscription box. May’s flavor is key lime pie. “Can we talk about lube on NPR?”
“My gut says no,” Ruthie says. “But the corn shoes are kind of cute, right?”
When Dominic arrives at a quarter past nine, there are no more adult toys on his desk. “Morning,” he says to me as he drops his bag by his desk and pulls out his chair. “Morning, Ruthie.”
“Morning!” Ruthie chirps before returning to typing.
My words get stuck at the back of my throat. I’m not sure I can utter a basic good morning now that I know how his hands feel on my skin, between my legs. What he looks like on the verge of orgasm. What is proper etiquette the day after you hook up with the fake ex-boyfriend you’re doing a radio show with? I would honestly love a podcast about that.
Dominic doesn’t look at me, which gives me a chance to watch him unpack. He’s clean-shaven this morning, weekend stubble gone, wearing a red plaid shirt and black jeans. It’s not normal, is it, for me to be able to smell his soap from a full desk away? And I know there’s something wrong with me when him tossing the Koosh ball up and down doesn’t even annoy me.
He’s the one who said he didn’t think he could do casual. Maybe he has no idea how to handle this, either.
Even if nothing that happened on Saturday felt casual at all.
I try my best to focus on my Monday to-do list instead of imagining his fingers on my skin again. We’re doing a guest appearance at ten o’clock on the podcast Thanks I Hate It, which is hosted by Audrey and Maya, two stand-up comedian best friends who talk about millennial dating culture and adulting. They’re pretty popular, and they have a book coming out next year. I was over the moon when their producer reached out to Ruthie last week, but today I have to force myself to concentrate on the interview.
Ruthie engineers the interview for us in Booth A. Fortunately, Audrey and Maya are easy to talk to, even if I feel myself tense up when Audrey introduces us as “America’s favorite exes.”
I don’t know if the weekend made Dominic and me more awkward or less awkward, but we manage to make them laugh plenty of times. By the end of the interview, though, I can’t remember a thing I’ve said.
Kent is waiting for us in the hall after we finish recording.
“Great stuff, really great,” he says. “That in there—that’s exactly what I was talking about. You two felt much more natural. Guess the weekend away worked wonders, huh?”
Huh indeed.
“Guess it did. Thank you,” I say. Then, since Kent’s in a good mood, I decide to try something again. WWAMWMD, I remind myself when I’m worried I might chicken out, and I charge forward. “I wanted to run something by you.”
“Sure,” he says with a glance down at his watch. “I’ve only got a few minutes, though.”
I’m extremely aware of Dominic next to me and positive my face is the color of his shirt.
“My grief show. I know I brought it up at sort of a weird time last week, but it’s important to me, and I think we could do a lot with it.”
He turns icy almost instantly. “I thought we discussed that.”
“A little bit, but I’ve been thinking about it, and—”
“I’m just not sure it’s the best path for the show right now,” Kent says, cutting me off. “Too dark. We want to keep things light, keep things fun. Dom, you agree with me, right?”
“Actually, no,” Dominic says, straightening to his full height, much taller than Kent. “I think it would be fantastic radio. I don’t think there’s any reason we need to box ourselves into one type of show.”
Kent taps his chin, deep in thought for a moment. I’m too warm in my blazer, unsure where this conversation is going. “Well, I trust you,” he finally says. To Dominic. “I trust both of you. Go ahead and get the ball rolling.”
I’m still gaping when Kent disappears down the hall.
“Did you—you realize what just happened there, right?” I manage to ask Dominic. Another entry for the Kent O’Grady misogyny playbook. I’m more positive than I’ve ever been that that’s what it is.
“Fucking prick,” he says under his breath.
I have to hold in a laugh. “Thank you,” I tell him. “For being on board with it.
“It’s going to be a good show.” I’m about to head back to our desks, but what he says next stops me in my tracks. “I think we, uh, accidentally swapped phone chargers over the weekend,” he says, eyes darting around the hallway as though making sure we’re alone. “Would you mind swinging by my place tonight so we can switch back?”
I must not have noticed. “Sure, or we can do it tomorrow at work.”
“I need it tonight.” He steps closer, a hand reaching out so he can brush a thumb across my hip. His voice drops another octave. “Or are you going to make me say that I want to see you?”
“I don’t hate the sound of that,” I say, biting back a grin. Even if this is a thinly veiled booty call, I decide I don’t mind. I have to be alone with him again—every cell in my body is crying out for it. “That is, if you’re saying it.”
He smirks. “I’ll see you tonight.”
24
Dominic’s apartment smells incredible. “Welcome,
” he says, holding open the door. He’s changed out of his work shirt into a soft flannel rolled to the elbows—holy forearms, Batman—and his jeans hang low on his hips.
I take off my jacket and slip out of my shoes, trying not to look like I’m examining his apartment. It’s a design aesthetic I’d call IKEA chic but tasteful: clean white furniture, a few succulents on the coffee table in his living room, that lantern floor lamp everyone has owned at some point in their lives.
I hold up my charger. “I brought this,” I say. “But I’m guessing I probably don’t need it?”
“Not very smooth, was I?”
“I’m here, so I’d call that a win.”
As I follow him into the kitchen, his fingertips graze the small of my back. It’s criminal, the things those small touches do to me.
Dominic’s cast-iron skillets hang from the ceiling. “I restored the skillets from this weekend yesterday evening,” he says. “And one of them is right in there.” He gestures toward the oven.
“Pizza?”
“The best pizza of your fucking life,” he corrects.
“This is a considerable step up from that Hot Pocket.”
He shrugs. “It’s not very fun cooking just for myself. And I figured I owed it to you after the pasta incident.”
This feels like a date. This cannot feel like a date.
“Right. So that and the phone charger—those are the only reasons I’m here?”
Pink creeps onto his cheeks. “Pizza’s almost ready. Can we eat first and then talk? I wanted a place where we could do it that wasn’t at work.”
“Sure,” I say, but the knot of dread in my stomach tightens. After dinner, he’ll break it to me gently that we can’t have a repeat of this weekend, and I’ll be so enamored with the pizza that I won’t mind. That has to be his strategy.
He takes the pizza out of the oven, and it’s bubbly and fragrant and perfect. Honestly, his strategy might work. He throws together a quick salad, bagged lettuce with those little carrot slivers, a dash of oil and vinegar. Then he grabs a bottle of wine from the top of his refrigerator, grimacing at the label.
The Ex Talk Page 20